


Of piano keys and open wounds

by Maegfen



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Prompt Fill, Spoilers through 6A, UST, patch-up fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 09:39:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6001182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maegfen/pseuds/Maegfen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re really good at making new friends,” she mumbles, holding his left hand loosely as she secures the bandage and begins to wrap it round the cut. “You know that right?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of piano keys and open wounds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nothinbuttherain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothinbuttherain/gifts).



> Prompt fill for the ever wonderful nothinbuttherain (marcus-kane on tumblr), who’s the first recipient ever of a Richonne story written by yours truly. She prompted a patch-up fic, with maybe a first kiss thrown in there too.  
> I hope you all enjoy this; I had a great time writing for these two!  
> Spoilers for up to 6A, everything after that is just vague and speculative...

The old music store smells musky and damp, long since abandoned by its regular customers and with a hole in the roof that lets in a constant drip of water from the rusted pipes above. The once revered and carefully cared for instruments have been left to rot and decay like everything else in the new world since the outbreak.  
  
Michonne glances forlornly at the small upright Steinway wheeled in front of the entrance, eyes the dusty white keys with a sense of dismay that she can’t wander over and lose herself in Moonlight Sonata or Fur Elise. The moans of walkers outside dissuade her from playing; it’s not worth fighting for her life again just to savor the familiarity of playing a piano, something she hasn’t done since long before she headed out to that forsaken safe zone with her family.

Instead, she reaches into the bag she’s dumped onto the old payment counter next to her sword and starts haphazardly digging through it in an attempt to find a set of bandages. Spare ammo, rations and several bottles of water litter the counter as she searches, the pile growing bigger the longer she searches through the bag. Daryl had packed all the equipment that morning for the runs, had told her he’d put in a couple of spare bandages just for her. His muttered “y’all manage to get in more trouble than Glenn” had been enough for her to chuckle as he had headed off in the opposite direction with Carol.  
  
So she _distinctly_ remembers there being bandages in the bag somewhere, it’s just a case of moving all the other stuff they’ve accumulated out of the way first…  
  
She takes out yet another bottle of water and places it on the counter.  
  
There’s a faint huff of annoyance to her left and Michonne looks up, raising an eyebrow at the man leaning against the wall of the shop, slumped in an old chair.  
  
“I’ll just leave you to bleed all over the floor if you can’t be patient,” she admonishes, watching as Rick rolls his eyes and glares at her.  
  
“Just hurry up,” he mutters, wincing as he twists his left arm slightly and causes another small spatter of blood to connect with both the floor and a couple of old acoustic guitars that are standing nearby. His gun hangs loosely in his other hand, aimed, with a surprising amount of concentration given the pain he’s clearly in, at the back door of the shop.  
  
Michonne chooses to ignore him, instead smiling as she finally locates the bandages and antiseptic wipes.  
  
“Got ‘em,” she smiles, waving the supplies in the air semi-dramatically as she looks up at Rick again. He huffs once more, and raises his eyebrows in what she’s come to recognize as the universal Grimes sign for ‘well get on with it then!’ (Carl gives her this look more often than his father, but it’s clearly a family trait…)  
  
There are a couple of faint rattles from the far door at the back of the shop as a few of the walkers that had followed them from the alley attempt to work their way in. There’s not any real danger though; the two of them had made sure to block both doors with old drum kits and amplifiers before they settled down.  
  
Rick holds out his arm impatiently, his sleeve rolled up revealing, for the first time, the extent of his injury. It’s a short cut, Michonne observes, but it’s a little deep, hence why Rick’s left a trail of blood from the alley where he slipped to the little pool of blood that’s collecting by his boots.  
  
Michonne cleans the wound quickly, careful not to press the cool wipes straight onto the cut too often; the wipes may be old but they still sting like a bitch. The initial part of her first aid done, she tosses the old wipe onto the counter and picks up the hastily rolled up bandage, unhooks the safety pins that are holding it together and unwinds it.  
  
The bandage is soft in her hands, recently washed and sterilized as best as Denise can manage. It’s slightly off white, grubby looking, but it’s the best they’ve got nowadays, so Michonne ignores the discoloration and sets about wrapping up Rick’s lower arm. The injury looks red, angry, and it’s still slightly bleeding despite her attempts to clean it; tiny drops of crimson occasionally drip from the wound, staining Rick’s shirt, his pants and the floor beneath him. Michonne holds back a wry laugh as she remembers the vision of Rick slipping on the lowest rung of a ladder and cutting his arm on the sharp piece of overhanging metal while the two of them were escaping a combination of walkers and a few of their fellow humans.  
  
“You’re _really_ good at making new friends,” she mumbles, holding his left hand loosely as she secures the bandage and begins to wrap it round the cut. “You know that right?”  
  
The sarcasm, for once, isn’t completely lost on him. Rick doesn’t reply however, just stares at the bandage that’s beginning to cover his arm and grumbles at her under his breath.  
  
Michonne chuckles and wipes a bead of sweat from her brow before continuing with her task. Outside on the main street, she can still hear the faint rumbles of the walkers, but they seem to be heading further away.  
  
“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that?”  
  
“I’m not _that_ bad,” he repeats, louder this time, “this kind of thing doesn’t happen _that_ often…”  
  
He trails off at Michonne’s look and suddenly she’s laughing as loud as she dare with the threat of death still looming over them. There are still walkers and some pissed off campers lurking around somewhere after all.  
  
“Really?” She takes a tiny step back and raises her eyebrows at him in surprise. “Like you actually believe that! Do you want the list of similar occurrences stated alphabetically, chronologically or by seriousness of injuries sustained by you or others?”  
  
Her jibe is enough for Rick to break out in a small, whimsical grin and he shoves her gently with half bandaged arm, but he merely succeeds in loosening her attempts to patch him up. It’s Michonne’s turn to huff in annoyance now, and she grabs his hand more fully to hold him still, smirking at him as he winces in pain again.  
  
“Oh hold still you baby,” she utters, rolling her eyes. She can feel fresh patches of blood on his palm, can feel his pulse as the tips of her fingers stray onto his wrist; it’s racing, but she puts it down to the adrenaline of the chase. Michonne ignores the fact that her own heart is pounding in her ears. Rick stares at her intently, eyes peering at her, occasionally flickering to the blocked door of their exit and the rear door they’d raced through earlier. Even now, even when they should be able to catch just 5 minutes respite to calm down, he’s on high alert.  
  
She chooses to ignore him, her concentration back on her original task. It doesn’t take long after that. Rick holds surprisingly still, his right arm still aiming his gun at the doors every so often, but for the most part he doesn’t move, as if frozen by the touch of her hand in his.  
  
Minutes later, with her job complete, Michonne moves back to the counter and focuses on repacking the bag so they can attempt to head back home. In the meantime, Rick carefully folds down the sleeve of his shirt to cover the bandage.  
  
“You’ll need a tetanus shot when we get back by the way,” she states as she stuffs the numerous water bottles back in. “Wouldn’t want you to get an infection, your left arm’s bound to come in useful every so often.”  
  
“I’ll head over to Denise as soon as we’re through the gates.”  
  
He’s suddenly a lot closer, Michonne realizes, and she turns to find him a couple of feet away, leaning against the counter. His eyes wander over her, but his brow is crinkled in confusion.  
  
“You’re hurt too.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Your forehead,” Rick points out, his injured arm waving vaguely at her head. Michonne watches as he places his gun back in it’s holster, his now empty hand lifting to sweep across the skin of her cheeks to her brow. She sucks in a breath because there’s no way that touch wasn’t intentional, the cool touch of his fingers leaving a heated path on her face. She feels, belatedly, the sting of a cut, the ache of a bruise. Michonne remembers being caught slightly by one of the disgruntled campers they’d stumbled upon in the liquor store, figures that’s where she received the injury. She’d been so intent on fixing Rick up that she’d barely noticed her own pain.  
  
“Eh,” she dismisses, breath catching slightly again as Rick’s fingers continue to rest on her brow, his thumb sweeping gently across the wound, “it’s fine, barely feel a thing. It’s not bleeding or anything right?”  
  
Rick pulls his hand away, inspects it and Michonne spots a streak of red on his thumb.  
  
“A little,” he admits, although she’s already guessed the blood isn’t his. “I can fix you up with some stitches though.”  
  
Michonne shakes her head and laughs.  
  
“Please, it’s fine, leave it,” she mutters, a smirk on her face, “your first aid skills are terrible.”  
  
“At least let me clean you up,” Rick implores, reaching out for the pack of wipes that she still hasn’t stuffed into her bag, “return the favor.”  
  
Michonne sighs, because they really don’t have time for this; the campers could find them at any moment, or the walkers could finally figure out how to get through the back door, or, well, there are _so_ many things that could go wrong. Still, he’s got his determined look on his face, the one there’s really no arguing with, so she sits down in the place he’s so recently vacated and waits.  
  
He kneels in front of her, even though there’s no real reason to, and carefully pulls a wipe from the pack, making sure to seal it properly afterwards to prevent the rest from drying out. The wipe is cool against her skin, much like Rick’s fingers had been and Michonne doesn’t exactly know where to look as he focuses on her face. He’s using his bandaged arm to clean her brow, his right hand supporting him by resting on her left thigh just above her knee. She wonders if he realizes that his thumb is lightly sweeping across the fabric of her jeans, another surprising source of heat.  
  
Michonne decides not to over-analyze it, just sits perfectly still, checks her breathing, tries to avoid eye contact with the man in front of her as much as possible. There’s been this unspoken thing between them for months now, long before they reached Alexandria, long before the mess with Pete and Jessie and the complete shitstorm that followed when the walls collapsed. They’ve never confronted it though and Michonne wonders if Rick’s _really_ going to pick now, in the most unlikely (and inconvenient) of places to throw caution to the wind and actually _do_ something.  
  
“There, done,” Rick whispers softly, his voice pulling her from her thoughts. He catches her gaze as he tosses the wipe aside without looking where it lands, but he doesn’t move away. Michonne waits, her breaths slow as the seconds stretch out. Just when she believes Rick is going to retreat, going to stand up, going to shatter the moment, he leans forward. It’s just a fraction of an inch, but it’s Rick, it’s intentional and it’s… utterly terrifying.  
  
His breath is hot on her skin and Michonne suddenly feels his lips press gently against her cheek, the roughness of his stubble tickling her slightly. She doesn’t dare move and decides to stay still in anticipation of his next move. Her eyes close for a moment, and it’s then that she feels him kiss her once more. This time the heat of his lips press against the corner of her mouth and she shudders, unintentionally releasing the breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Rick pulls back far enough to look her in the eye.  
  
“Michonne, I…”  
  
He’s cut off by a sudden crash against the rear door of the shop.  
  
“Time to go,” Rick sighs wearily, shuffling back a little on his knees, finally giving her room to breath.  
  
“Agreed.”  
  
She stays sitting for a moment, watches as Rick stands quickly and takes out his gun just in case. Michonne soon springs to her feet, grabs her sword and bag and waits, quietly, in case the walkers come crashing through quicker than either of them are anticipating.  
  
Rick moves towards the piano, towards the door, before he stops and turns back to face her. Michonne slings her bag onto her back and watches, waits, wonders what he’s going to say.  
  
“I think we need to have a talk when we get back,” he finally says, and he smiles, just a little, just enough to let Michonne know that it’s probably going to be okay. “I think there’s a lot we need to discuss…”  
  
He leaves the statement hanging, waiting for her input, her confirmation that this is something that she wants too.  
  
“Yeah,” she agrees, nodding slightly and walking past him, making sure to brush his hand lightly with her own as she goes, “yeah, I think there is.”

They don’t speak again after that, all the important things they need to relate have already been voiced after all. Instead, they head over to the piano that’s still blocking the door to the street. The two of them begin to push it out of the way, clearing their exit to the street beyond, away from the low rumbles of the approaching walkers on the other side of the slowly breaking door behind them.  
  
Michonne’s fingers linger over the keys and she traces a small pattern in the dust before she and Rick haul the instrument completely out of the way. She doesn’t play a note, but a chord sounds out in her imagination, as close as she’ll get for a while.  
  
She and Rick cautiously exit the building onto the half-deserted street beyond and don’t look back.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think; kudos and comments make my day :)


End file.
